


Company

by Ginipig



Series: Love By Any Other Name [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alistair & Female Warden Friendship, Alistair & Hawke Friendship, Canon Compliant, Cullen and Alistair Trained Together as Templars, Cullistair, Discussion of early death, Drinking & Talking, Emotional Intimacy Over Drinks, Except the obvious, Female Hawke - Freeform, Future Romance, Hawke and Cullen Grudging Respect, Heart-to-Heart, Hints at potential romance, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, The Calling, Undefined Female Warden (Dragon Age), Warden Alistair, Warden Ultimate Sacrifice, but mostly friendship, mention of past torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-01 21:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19185673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/pseuds/Ginipig
Summary: When a certain Warden arrives at Skyhold, Cullen finds himself wanting to catch up with his old friend/acquaintance/annoying schoolmate. What he doesn't expect to discover is how much they've both changed since they trained together, or how much they now have in common.





	Company

**Author's Note:**

> This is a (standalone) part of my Love By Any Other Name series, which details Cullen and Alistair's friendship and later romance during Inquisition.

For the third evening in a row, Cullen dined with others in a place that wasn’t his office, and followed dinner with a drink in The Herald’s Rest.

He was even, by some miracle, _enjoying_ himself, in spite of present company.

“So then Hawke says,” Varric said, barely understandable through laughter. “Next time, try The Blooming Rose.”

Then he and Hawke spoke at the same time. “They don’t even charge extra to pretend your dick is biggest!”

What seemed to be the entire pub burst into laughter and cheers.

“Charming,” Cullen muttered into his ale.

Krem nudged him with a shoulder. “C’mon, Commander,” he said, using the same fond tone as when he called Bull _Chief_ , and Cullen couldn’t deny a warm feeling in his chest that probably wasn’t the ale. “Can’t have been all bad in Kirkwall. She seems a good sort.”

They watched as Hawke emptied her third or fourth ale, turned the mug upside-down, and shouted, “Another!”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you and the Chargers would have gotten on splendidly with her group of friends. They drank all the time, caused untold property damage, and occasionally stumbled into saving the city.”

Bull burst into laughter. “That does sound like us! Horns up!”

“Horns up!” the Chargers all yelled, raising their ales and drinking.

Hawke seemed to consider this a challenge; behind her new mug, she locked eyes with Krem and winked before tilting her head back. In a moment they were racing, with Varric taking bets on the winner and Cullen unfortunately in the middle of the maelstrom.

In a desperate attempt to find someone who agreed that, perhaps, this was all a bit much, Cullen looked across the table at Alistair.

They hadn’t had much time to talk over the past few days — which was, in fact, the secret reason that he’d not holed himself up in his office in the evenings — but Cullen had learned enough to know that in spite of his friendship with Hawke and his current predicament with the Wardens, Alistair didn’t care for this sort of raucousness, either.

But instead of meeting his gaze with the smirk and knowing eye roll Cullen expected, Alistair sat still, staring blankly at nothing in particular. He seemed to almost be in a sort of trance, and the hairs on the back of Cullen’s neck stood at attention.

“Alistair?” He leaned forward, voice firm but at a normal speaking volume.

Hawke, who had barely lost to Krem and was laughing and chatting as money changed hands, spun around at Alistair’s name as if she’d been listening for it, suddenly far more alert than her five or six ales would suggest. Her eyes flicked toward Cullen before focusing solely on Alistair.

“Al,” she said, clearly enough to be heard through the din. As she spoke, she waved one hand in front of Alistair’s face and placed the other on his shoulder in a gesture that surprised Cullen in its gentleness.

Alistair blinked, as if awakening from, well, a trance. He seemed disoriented for a moment, and opened his mouth to speak when Hawke’s eyes once again flitted toward Cullen and back. Alistair’s followed, and his trademark grin immediately burst into existence.

“‘M fine,” he said, and Cullen could tell the answer was at least partly for his own benefit. “Just …” Alistair shrugged. “Well, you know.”

That infectious grin turned brittle, and Cullen recognized it; he’d seen it enough times in training when some of the other boys thought Alistair was out of earshot of their unkind conversations.

But if Hawke noticed, she didn’t show it. “I know what’ll get it out of your head.” Turning to the group that had cheered on her drinking contest, she sang the opening line of one of Kirkwall’s more infamous drinking songs.

“Wonderful,” Cullen murmured into his ale. “Now that will be in my head all night.”

As the bar joined in, Alistair snorted, seemingly at Cullen’s remark, his lips melting into a familiar — though far more cynical than Cullen remembered — sincere smirk before picking up his own ale. He finished the drink in only a few gulps, made a face — at which Cullen tried unsuccessfully to hide his own snort — and, carefully avoiding Cullen’s gaze, turned to leave without drawing attention to himself.

When he reached the door without being noticed, Cullen found himself wondering when Alistair had learned to be inconspicuous. The Alistair he’d known in Templar training was always the center of attention (or trouble, which was often the same thing).

The Alistair he’d known also didn’t leave a group of friends without saying goodbye. Or go into odd trances in the middle of a crowd. Yes, he’d definitely changed since Cullen had known him — and he wasn’t the only one who had— but Cullen could tell from what he’d learned in the past few days that this was strange behavior. Alistair hadn’t changed _that_ much.

It wasn’t even the “odd” that bothered Cullen. What bothered him was the avoidance and seclusion. Alistair — yes, the one he’d been reacquainting himself with from a distance for the past few days — didn’t seem to enjoy being _alone_. He never had, really; he’d been desperate to be friends with anyone and everyone during training. Much to his obvious, at least to Cullen, disappointment, the other trainees were never particularly fond of Alistair, who had been rumored to be the bastard son of King Maric. (Cullen, never one for gossip, had refused to acknowledge any truth behind the rumor until Alistair had confirmed it in passing at his first war council meeting, as if it were a well-known fact. For most people, it probably was.)

But even more wrong than the solitude was the silence. Alistair had always loved to talk, and Cullen had learned since he’d arrived at Skyhold that that aspect of his personality hadn’t changed. In fact, if anything, he’d been talking _too much_. Even Leliana had declined to join them for dinner and drinks this evening, and they were old friends. She’d mentioned this just among the advisers that she wouldn’t be joining the group because she “needed just one evening alone with my thoughts.” She said it with a smile, but Cullen saw through the joking — Alistair was distracting her and she needed to work.

Why he hadn’t also taken the opportunity to get work done, Cullen wasn’t entirely sure. Which was how he’d found himself grumbling into his ale about Hawke and wishing for the blessed silence of his office late at night.

So it was concern for an old … well, _friend_ was a bit strong. Acquaintance, perhaps. Old schoolmate? Sure, that worked. It was concern for an old, loud, annoying schoolmate that had Cullen following Alistair’s lead, finishing his own ale and sneaking out of the pub as inconspicuously as possible.

 

* * *

 

Once outside the pub, it took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but Cullen could see a shape making its way in the direction of the main hall. He followed it; unfortunately for him, every person he passed recognized and addressed him by title.

Since a fairly recent, less than pleasant conversation with Josephine — in which she explained that the residents of Skyhold saw him as “aloof,” “unapproachable,” and “intimidating” and during which she had extracted from him a promise to make an effort to be more “accessible” — such recognition slowed him down. Fortunately, Alistair seemed to be wandering more than heading in any particular direction. After acknowledging nearly a dozen people in the course of his short walk, Cullen managed to catch up with Alistair in the courtyard, enough to speak his name at a relatively normal volume. Whether Alistair didn’t hear or merely ignored him, Cullen had to call his name several times during his approach. By the time Alistair turned, hands thrust deep into his pockets, Cullen was close enough to hear him humming a tune that was decidedly _not_ Hawke’s drinking song — it was, in fact, an old song from Templar training, used to help trainees focus during prayers and meditations.

“Cullen.” Alistair’s tone was mild. Neutral. “Calling it a night already? And here I thought you’d be up all night singing Kirkwall drinking songs with Hawke.”

His smirk was sharper than Cullen remembered it, and his humor was, too. Alistair knew of Cullen and Hawke’s … complicated, rather tense relationship. The man that Cullen knew was funny but kind; he never pressed on a known sore spot unless someone deserved it. Perhaps he thought Cullen did.

Or maybe that, too, had changed in the decade or so since Cullen had known him. Much had happened during that time that had turned lesser men far more cynical. Cullen was one of them.

“Yes,” Cullen said, deadpan. “How I’ve lain awake at night, longing for the blessed stench of Darktown riding on the notes of The Hanged Man’s drunkards all the way out to the Gallows.”

To his surprise, Alistair laughed. “You’re funny now. You didn’t used to be.”

“I’m always looking for areas to improve.”

“Now _that_ sounds like the Cullen I know.” Alistair’s smile was far more genuine now, and Cullen couldn’t help a pleased satisfaction at that, as well as the fact that he wasn’t alone in comparing traits to the ones they had during training. “Always working. I assume that you’re headed to do that now.”

“No!” Cullen grimaced at the vehemence of his tone. “That is, I …” He sighed and had to admit, “That is a fair assumption. But I actually wanted to see if you were …” Much to his own chagrin, he rubbed the back of his neck before he realized what he was doing. “All right,” he finished.

Maker, he really should have thought this through. He was making a fool of himself.

Alistair clearly thought the same, since he straightened and said, “I’m fine. Just tired. After the last few nights, thought maybe I’d turn in early for once and try to get some real rest in a real bed.”

Once again, Alistair’s smirk looked forced, and for reasons Cullen couldn’t quite explain, he wanted to bring the genuine one back.

“You were just … rather more quiet than seems normal,” Cullen continued against his better judgment, and he was glad for the darkness that hid his burning face. “I thought perhaps that if you wanted to — to talk, I have a bottle up in my office of far better quality than what The Herald’s Rest serves.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow and _tsk_ ed. “Taking advantage of your position as commander? How unlike you.”

Cullen lifted his chin. “It was a gift, and I don’t drink much. Of course,” he added quickly, “if you’d prefer a good night’s sleep, I completely understand. You’ve been through quite the ordeal and should have the chance to rest before you’re called to arms again. I just wanted you to know that, should you desire to talk … the offer is there.”

Alistair said nothing for a moment, just stared at him, and Cullen silently berated himself.

“I apologize,” he said, aware at this point that he was bordering on rambling — something which he made a point to never do. “I shouldn’t have — I’m glad you are well. I have plenty of work to do, so I’ll bid you good night.”

He turned around and pinched the bridge of his nose as he walked away, wondering how much of a selfish, meddling ass Alistair must believe him to be.

“Wait!”

Cullen stopped, but before he could turn back, Alistair was beside him, having run to catch up.

“Better than what they have in the Rest?” Alistair asked.

“It was a gift from an Orlesian noble,” Cullen said simply, the corners of his mouth moving upward. He started to walk again, making his way toward his tower.

“Ah, yes.” The darkness cast them both in shadow, but Cullen could _hear_ Alistair’s smirk. “Lels said she has a stack of marriage proposals on her desk thicker than the Chant.”

Cullen rolled his eyes, leading Alistair up the stairs to the battlements. “Maker help me, but I can’t understand why.”

“They do know you’re a commoner from _Ferelden_ , right?”

Cullen chuckled and shook his head. “Unfortunately, Josephine seems to think that’s part of the allure.”

“I can see it. The tall, blond, and silent type, a handsome lowborn who’s in charge of one of the largest armies in Thedas. The mystery and power and forbiddenness of it all probably sets their romantic Orlesian hearts aflutter.”

Cullen strode across the battlements, nodding to the men and women on duty — surely Josephine wouldn’t insist he stop a conversation with a guest of the Inquisitor in his effort to be more “accessible” — and he was suddenly both grateful for and unsure of Alistair’s constant chatter. Had Alistair just called him _handsome_? Why did he find that flattering right now, when usually it embarrassed him?

“Yes, how fortunate for me,” he muttered, uncertain as to which part of Alistair’s comment he was responding. “Leliana and Josephine now want to use me as bait to discover secrets about various nobles.”

Alistair laughed. “Perils of being attractive, I suppose. Are they going to whore you out, or —”

“Alistair.” Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose as several of the guards they passed exchanged looks and smirks. He felt an odd sense of, as the Orlesians said, _déja vu_ , and it took him a moment to realize why.

Throughout training, Cullen had always been focused on his goal — to become the best Templar he could possibly be. As a result, he didn’t spend much time socializing with the other trainees, preferring to stay up studying in preparation for the next exam or practicing fighting forms in his room. The times he did venture out in an attempt to be friendly, the one person he could always count on to make him blush was Alistair.

Cullen didn’t even believe it was purposeful, at least in the beginning; Alistair was just the type of person to make inappropriate jokes at the most inappropriate times. Cullen hadn’t been the only one embarrassed, but he was the one who had reacted the most strongly. And, as the most fervently devout of all the trainees their age — he truly had believed, then, that the Maker had chosen this path for him — he’d also been the one who scolded Alistair for his jokes.

Alistair snorted. “Careful there, Rutherford. One of the sisters might hear us, and I’m not the one who’s planning to sinfully lead on innocent creepy nobles in an attempt to pump them for information.”

“This time,” Cullen heard himself say.

Maker’s breath, had he actually spoken that aloud?

But Alistair burst into laughter — his genuine, infectious laughter that once again took Cullen back to when they were young, and he realized that not only had he not heard that laugh since Alistair had arrived at Skyhold, but he also welcomed it, as though it was something his life had been missing for all these years.

He couldn’t help but smile reflexively; it was impossible to keep a straight face when Alistair was laughing, whether one was the object or not.

Alistair’s laugh tapered off — much to Cullen’s disappointment — although the lightness and joy in his voice remained. “When did you grow a sense of humor?”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “You’ll likely find few here who will agree with that assessment.”

“I don’t know, I talked with — Maker’s balls, Cullen!” Alistair glanced over his shoulder. “Do you know where you’re going? Because I’m pretty sure we passed that same tower three times now.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “My office is right up here.” It was, in fact, the door they were approaching now.

“This place is such a maze, I don’t know how anyone can find — Wait.” Alistair stopped, then jogged a few steps to catch up when Cullen didn’t. “Your office? I thought you said you _weren’t_ going back to work. We were going to drink some fancy Orlesian booze?”

“The bottle is in my office. Which is right through this door.” Cullen tipped his head in that direction. “If you were interested in getting out of the cold wind?”

He unlocked said door and held it open, gesturing for Alistair to enter.

Alistair eyed him suspiciously. “Sassy, too? Leaving the Order, cracking jokes, laughing and sassing — who are you?”

He walked past Cullen into the office as he spoke. Cullen followed, closing the door behind him and attempting not to show how close to his heart Alistair’s words had hit.

Because every morning, upon waking, he looked in the mirror and asked himself the same question.

Alistair took in the office and turned back to Cullen, apparently unaware of the existential crisis he’d reawakened. “You know you’re not in a Circle anymore, right? I bet if you asked for a side table or a couple extra chairs, they’d let you have them.”

“If I had extra chairs, then people might think it a sign that they should stay beyond their purpose for being here,” said Cullen, opening his drawer and pulling out the unopened bottle of Orlesian something-or-other Josephine insisted it would be rude to return to the sender. “I have little time for idle chatter.”

Alistair gave no response, and when Cullen looked up at the silence, he caught that earlier brittle grin, which Alistair had flashed at Hawke, wiping away the last signs of a frown. “Well, I’ll be sure to finish that drink with as little chatter as possible so you can get back to it, then, Commander.”

Only now fully comprehending his own words, Cullen rushed to clarify. “I meant — I wasn’t — I didn’t mean that _you_ —”

At Alistair’s attempted but not at all nonchalant shrug, Cullen growled, running a hand through his hair and tugging harder than was necessary. Why was he making such a mess of this?

“People traipse in and out of here like they own the place,” he said, motioning to the three doors as evidence. “I rarely have a moment to myself to think. If I need to speak at length with someone, we go somewhere else, like the war room or a place of their choosing. I don’t … entertain people here.”

Alistair blinked, and then cocked an eyebrow. But Cullen could tell from the twinkle in Alistair’s eye that he was understood, if not fully forgiven.

“And here I imagined you holding balls here weekly for all those Orlesian nobles that want you so badly.”

Cullen laughed at that, and there was relief in it he didn’t fully understand. “I don’t dance.”

Alistair mock-gasped. “I would never have guessed!” Then his expression grew serious. “I appreciate the offer, but if you have work to do, I don’t want to —”

Cullen held up a hand. “Stop.” And miraculously, Alistair did. “Wait here a moment.”

Before Alistair could protest, Cullen was halfway across the room toward the ladder that led to his quarters upstairs. Once at the top, he snatched the only piece of actual furniture in the room aside from his bed — the barrels that acted as miniature tables didn’t count — and descended the ladder with it.

Alistair, who had been perusing Cullen’s bookshelves, grinned at the sight of the small but functional chair. “Ah, so you have a hidden stash of chairs up there for special occasions?”

“Just the one,” said Cullen, placing the new chair behind his desk and offering Alistair his own, far more comfortable chair. “I didn’t want to get rid of it, so I keep it up in my quarters.”

Alistair glanced at the ladder and back to Cullen, shaking his head. “Why am I not surprised that you live above your office?”

Unsure whether that was an actual or rhetorical question, Cullen decided not to answer, instead fiddling with the seal of the bottle for a moment before it opened. He had one clean glass on his desk and the mug he used for tea, complete with leftover dregs from earlier. Grimacing, he dumped the mug out the window and filled it and the glass, which he handed to Alistair.

Alistair blinked several times before he took the proffered glass, not unlike he had in the Rest when Hawke spoke to him. Cullen wondered what it was that kept distracting him, but he wasn’t about to ask outright.

“To the Orlesian nobles who give you free liquor?” Alistair lifted his glass in a proposed toast.

“Absolutely not,” said Cullen. “I refuse to toast to anything Orlesian.”

“Hmm, good point.” Alistair frowned at the liquid for several moments.

“To old friends?” Cullen suggested.

Alistair’s eyebrow lifted, but he raised his glass after a second and added, “With new quirks. Like a sense of humor.”

“And cynicism?” The question was out before Cullen fully registered what he was saying. He didn’t want to upset Alistair again with an unthinking remark; then again, he was referring to himself as much as Alistair.

But Alistair let loose that bitter laugh that didn’t suit him and nodded. “Exactly.”

And they both drank.

Then they both frowned, first at the liquor, and then at each other.

“Well, that’s …” Alistair started.

“Orlesian?” Cullen offered.

Alistair shrugged. “I was going to say pretentious and unnecessary, but it’ll do the job.”

Cullen nodded. “Orlesian.”

They both laughed, tipping their glasses to each other, before continuing to drink, and Cullen decided he was glad that Alistair had said yes.

 

* * *

 

After a few moments of silence, Alistair spoke to his glass. “Is that what we are? Old friends?”

Cullen shrugged and sat back in his chair. “I was thinking about that in the Rest earlier. I apologize if I overstepped by suggesting —”

“I always thought we were friends,” Alistair said softly. “But I was pretty young and stupid back then and thought a lot of people liked me.”

There was that grin again — bitter and cynical. It didn’t fit Alistair at all, and Cullen’s heart ached to see it.

“I never thought of myself as having friends,” Cullen said gently. “But I was young and devout and refused to let anything distract me from my goal.” He smirked at Alistair and offered a half-shrug. “Stupid. When I look back on my time in training …”

And all the times Alistair had teased him, or made him laugh, or helped him relax when he was stressed about this exam or that sparring match.

“Yes, I think we were friends,” he finished. “Though I can’t for the life of me understand what you got out of it.”

Alistair looked at him like he was debating calling a healer. “You’re not serious? You were the only person who didn’t give a damn whether I was the bastard son of the king or not. You offered help when I was too ashamed to ask for it. You were kind. And when the others teased or picked on me, you told them to stop.”

Cullen looked at him sharply.

Alistair smirked. “You think I never heard about that? People respected you, and some of them followed your example. Made my life just a little bit easier.” He dropped his gaze. “I never could get up the courage to thank you for that.” With a half-shrug, Alistair tipped his glass toward Cullen. “Thanks.”

Cullen had no words. He’d always felt guilty that he hadn’t done enough to help Alistair; the other trainees _did_ respect him, but he was too focused on his own studies to care much about social interactions and only spoke up when their peers were being particularly hard on Alistair. The fact that even his minimum effort had helped Alistair warmed Cullen’s insides but also prompted more guilt — how much more could he have helped Alistair had he made it a priority?

“I should have done more,” he said. “And I’m sorry I didn’t.”

Alistair let loose that wrong, bitter laugh again. “If there was ever a sentence that summed up my life, that’s it.” He threw back his head and finished off his drink in one gulp.

Cullen stared at the liquid in his own mug, which suddenly blurred in front of him. His hand began to shake, so he gripped the mug until his knuckles turned white and squeezed his eyes shut.

A few seconds or weeks or centuries passed, he wasn’t sure which, and then he, too, knocked back the rest of that too-sweet Orlesian liquor before returning his mug to his desk with an unintentionally loud _clunk_.

When he opened his eyes, Alistair was regarding him with concern, but Cullen summoned his own sharp smirk, whetted in the tortures of Kinloch and the fires of Kirkwall. “That sentence is the whole damned reason I’m here.”

Then he reached for the Orlesian liquor and poured himself another generous serving, avoiding Alistair’s gaze. When he tipped the bottle toward Alistair in an offer of more, he worried for a long moment that it would be rejected, that he’d scared Alistair off with his own honesty and cynicism. But the next moment, Alistair held out his glass, and Cullen topped it off, as well.

They drank in silence that grated against Cullen’s skull. Of all the times to stop talking, Alistair had to choose now? Although Cullen had always preferred silence to the company of others, of late he’d begun to loathe the quiet. During the day, with scouts and soldiers and runners constantly coming and going, he could focus on the Inquisition and the people under his command. But at night, when he was alone with himself, the silence was never truly silent — it brought with it nightmares and memories, the sounds of screams and cold laughter and the _song_ …

A different song grounded Cullen now, but this one wasn’t in his head — someone was humming it. And that someone wasn’t him.

It was Alistair, once again humming that old Chantry tune from training. Cullen had no idea why he was humming it now (nor previously), but he joined in, if not aloud then under his breath, or perhaps in his own mind.

The reminder that Alistair was present brought with it other, more shameful thoughts. What had he been thinking, admitting out loud that he was here to atone? That was no one’s business. Much less someone he hadn’t seen in over a decade, not since —

“I owe you an apology.” Cullen was sure he’d spoken softly, but his voice sounded like a yell in the quiet of his office. He looked up in time to see Alistair jerk as if in surprise — not unlike he had in the Rest with Hawke — and then frown.

“For what?” Alistair shook his head, either in confusion or refusal, Cullen wasn’t sure which.

“For my behavior when we last saw each other.” Cullen’s hands, clutching his mug, were shaking again. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees in an attempt to steady himself, and spoke to his pretentious Orlesian liquor. “At the Circle tower.”

He felt, rather than saw, Alistair tense; though they weren’t touching, the air in the room grew thicker.

“Cullen, you don’t —”

“I do,” Cullen whispered. “The things I said — demanded, as though I had the right to order — they were horrific. The survivors deserved more than —”

A hand touched his forearm, and he jumped; it immediately retreated, but once it was gone, Cullen wished for it back. He didn’t like people touching him — hadn’t, not since Kinloch — but this felt different.

Better.

“I know,” Alistair said softly.

Then, seemingly in spite of himself, Alistair rested his hand once again on Cullen’s arm. Its effect was immediate and obvious — Cullen’s hands, once again grasping his mug until they were white with the effort, slowed their shaking and eventually stopped.

“I know,” Alistair repeated. “We understood.”

The tremors began anew, but Alistair’s grip tightened, and within a few moments, they ceased yet again.

“Did you?” Cullen asked. “Did they?”

Did _she_ , the woman who would become the Hero of Ferelden? Or had she died thinking him a heartless monster, demanding the deaths of mages — of _children_ — on the off-chance that one might be possessed by a demon?

Maker’s breath, of course she had! Why would he ever think otherwise? He _was_ a heartless monster then, and for too long while he was stationed in Kirkwall, and no amount of good command decisions would ever be enough for him to atone for the people he harmed during his time in the Order.

Alistair’s other hand gripped his other arm, and they squeezed hard enough to bring Cullen back to the present.

“Yes,” Alistair said. “We understood you’d been through something horrific and that you weren’t in your right mind.”

Cullen shook his head. “But I was. That was the problem. In Kirkwall —”

“That was later,” said Alistair. “In Ferelden, you were traumatized, you’d been … We only felt horrible that we weren’t able to get to you and all the rest sooner.” Alistair’s voice broke then, and Cullen looked up at him before he could think twice.

Alistair’s jaw was tight, his eyes filled with unshed tears. He pulled away when he met Cullen’s gaze, leaning back in his chair and clearing his throat as he snatched his glass from the desk.

“I’ve been talking with Hawke and Varric and Lels since I arrived.” Alistair brushed an arm across his face. “The Inquisition is doing a lot of good these days. _You’re_ doing a lot of good, Cullen.”

Cullen shook his head, then took a swig of his drink. “It’s not enough.”

Alistair shrugged. “Maybe not. But I don’t think the people being helped by the Inquisition care about that.” He, too, took a large drink, then made a face. “Okay, I lied before. This stuff is awful. Or maybe it just gets worse the more you drink it?”

Cullen didn’t know if Alistair truly disliked the Orlesian alcohol, or if he merely used it as an excuse to lighten the mood. Either way, it worked, and he snorted.

“Or both.” He made his own face. “Too sweet. It’s cloying.”

Alistair let out a mocking wistful sigh. “Just like the Grand Game.”

In spite of everything that had just occurred, Cullen chuckled. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything else. And here I told you I could offer you something better than the ale at the Rest.”

Alistair blinked, then leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “I didn’t think I’d have to spell this out,” he said, mouth quirked upward just slightly. “But I wasn’t enticed by your offer of fancy Orlesian liquor, which I could have predicted all the way back in the courtyard would be exactly as horrible as it is.”

Perhaps he was thrown by Alistair’s use of the word _entice_ , but Cullen hadn’t a clue what he meant.

At his likely confused expression, Alistair shrugged. “Company’s nice. Been needing it more these days.”

Cullen shook his head in definite confusion now. “Hawke and Varric seem like pleasant company …” He looked away and muttered, “If you like that sort of thing.”

Alistair snorted. “Sometimes I do. Sometimes it’s just too much. And don’t tell me you’ve never felt alone in a crowded room before.”

Cullen tipped his head in acknowledgment. Were he honest with himself, he felt alone in most rooms, crowded or no.

And they lapsed into silence once again.

 

* * *

 

After a minute or so of awkward, imposing, stifling silence, Cullen decided not to let the opportunity to sate his curiosity (and concern) pass.

“You have seemed rather …” Quiet? Odd? Prone to humming old Chantry tunes? “Distracted,” he finished.

Alistair’s laughter, as he leaned back in his chair and threaded his fingers behind his head, held no humor in it. “That’s one way of putting it.” He stared at Cullen’s ceiling for close to ten seconds before quietly asking, “How much do you know about the Grey Wardens?”

Cullen sat back in his own chair, arms folded, as though he were answering a question Dorian posed while they played chess. “Likely not much more than the average Fereldan, I’ll admit.”

Alistair snorted. “In spite of how many swear they met the Hero of Ferelden once, the average Fereldan has never actually seen a Grey Warden. So I’d say you’re quite a bit more advanced.”

Cullen shrugged. “I’ve only met two, and spent perhaps a grand total of” — he looked at the clock — “a few hours in their direct company, I wouldn’t be so sure.” He paused then, unsure whether to refer to the Wardens as represented by Alistair ( _you_ ) or as a third party ( _they_ ). In the end, he followed Alistair’s lead. “The Taint makes them specially equipped to fight darkspawn, which they can sense. They have more stamina than an average person. They have famously large appetites. They can conscript during a Blight. And this Calling is some sort of …” He wasn’t quite sure what to call it, and he didn’t want to upset Alistair. “A death omen, of sorts, I suppose.”

Alistair lifted his head sharply. “The Inquisitor didn’t go into more detail with you?”

That sounded suspicious, and it made Cullen sit up straight. “About the Wardens? Was there something you told her that you didn’t mention in our meeting?”

Alistair smirked. “Nothing relevant to the mission, Commander. Just details about the Taint and how the Calling manifests.” Then he leaned back, hands behind his head once again, and sighed. “I do try to keep some of the Wardens’ secrets, as much as they might doubt it.”

He said nothing else, staring at the ceiling for so long that Cullen might have feared he’d drifted off again, like in the Rest, but for the quiet humming of that old song from training. He didn’t say anything for so long, in fact, that Cullen concluded he’d decided to continue to keep those Warden secrets to himself. The thought disappointed Cullen far too much to be due to general curiosity alone, and he was in the midst of deciphering those feelings when the quiet humming ceased.

True silence fell between them. (Outside of them, too, for the hour was quite late now.) Cullen relished the silence for the first second or two before it began to press on his eardrums like a suffocating pillow over his face. And beneath — or perhaps deep within — the oppressive silence came the eerie song that haunted him in the moments before he drifted to sleep at night. He hated that song, but it would always be with him, it was a part of him, he would never be free of the chains that held him fast to —

When Alistair finally spoke, his voice refreshed Cullen like a breath of fresh air, shoving aside the smothering silence and drowning out the ever-present song, and Cullen sagged against his chair in relief.

“The Calling comes from the Taint,” said that melodic baritone that chased the cursed song away. “And the Taint, without getting into the gritty details, connects us to the darkspawn. The downside — other than the obvious — is that it slowly poisons us.”

The bottom of Cullen’s stomach dropped out, but Alistair continued as though the information was commonly accepted knowledge.

“The Calling — the real one, anyway — is … well, death omen isn’t a bad description, actually. Our bodies grow weak and start to give out, but the Calling begins before the serious physical effects become apparent. It starts with bad dreams. Or rather, worse ones. A connection to darkspawn doesn’t exactly make for peaceful sleep.”

Alistair smirked, but it faded quickly at whatever expression was on Cullen’s face. Cullen didn’t know — it could have been disbelief, horror, shock, sadness, or any number of other emotions swarming around inside him, or some combination thereof.

“Alistair …” he said softly.

Alistair spoke loudly over him. “Bad dreams.” He leaned back into his previous faux-casual position and stared once again at the ceiling, his voice now taking on a dreamy quality. “And then you start to hear the music. It calls to you. Quiet at first, and then so loud you can’t bear it. At that point, you settle your affairs and go into the Deep Roads to die fighting. In Death, Sacrifice.”

Cullen gaped. Was that how Wardens died? If they survived fighting darkspawn in battle, their reward was to … die while fighting darkspawn in battle _in the Deep Roads_? That was —

Unfair. A cruel cosmic joke.

If Alistair noticed Cullen’s shock, he didn’t show it, because after a few moments, he cleared his throat and lifted his head with a grin. Then he slapped his thighs, and when he spoke, he had returned to his upbeat attitude of old. “At any rate, I’m almost certain this one is fake. The odds of all the Wardens hearing the Calling at the same time just don’t make sense.”

Then, short burst of positivity reaching its end either on its own or by being absorbed by Cullen’s whirlwind of emotions, Alistair grew serious once again.

“But it feels real.” He snorted. “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be here. First the dreams, and then the music. When I’m talking or fighting I can almost ignore it, but when things get quiet …”

He buried his face in his hands, rubbing it hard before running his fingers through his hair and tugging on it, hard.

“I can’t make it stop!” he whimpered. “And there’s a part of me doesn’t _want_ it to stop. It’s calling me, and if I let myself I’d pick up my sword and shield, find the nearest entrance to the Deep Roads, and start mowing down darkspawn until they ran me through! But I _can’t_!”

At that, he shifted his hands to his ears and bent over at the waist, rocking up and down as if in time to the music only he could hear. “I have to stop them, I have to _do_ something, but when it’s quiet and I just let go the song gets so _fucking_ loud and all I want to do is bash my fucking head in!”

Before Cullen realized what he was doing, he was reaching out to Alistair. But in the course of his time as a Templar, he’d dealt with enough people who had lost their minds — or might as well have — to know better than to touch him. Unfortunately, yet unsurprisingly (thus the reason he was here with the Inquisition), his training didn’t emphasize nonviolent de-escalation. And because Alistair wasn’t a mage, no Templar powers would work, even if Cullen’s had been functional, which he could no longer guarantee. These days, if anyone let loose an emotional outburst, Josephine swooped in to handle the situation while he left the room via the nearest exit.

But Alistair needed him to do something. _Anything_.

So he did the first thing that came to mind — he started to hum that old meditation song from training. Quietly at first, but when Alistair froze after the first few notes, Cullen grew more confident and hummed louder.

After one refrain, he stopped humming and sang the words. They’d long since lost their meaning to him from repetition, but they came to him as though he’d learned the song yesterday.

As he sang, Alistair slowly relaxed — once he’d stilled, his hands loosened in his hair, and he sat up straight. He avoided Cullen’s gaze, but collapsed against the back of his chair, eyes shut tight. After a couple refrains, he began to mouth the words, and by the time Cullen had poured them both generous portions of the Orlesian sludge, Alistair was singing softly, too.

 _Talking or fighting_ , Alistair had said. And apparently humming or singing, as well. So, even though it went against all his instincts, at the end of the next refrain he stopped singing and began one of the others.

“Drink,” he said, holding Alistair’s cup out until he took it.

But before Cullen could even think of something else to say, Alistair spoke.

“How did you know that would work?”

Cullen shrugged. “I didn’t. But you’ve been humming it quietly off and on since you left the Rest, so I figured —”

“You could hear that?” Alistair grimaced — though at himself or the taste of the Orlesian liquor, Cullen wasn’t sure. “Wonderful. In addition to being a traitor, now everyone will also think I’m insane.” He laughed mirthlessly. “For once, what everyone thinks won’t be wrong.”

“You’re not insane.” Cullen’s voice surprised them both in its sternness. “Unless we both are. I know a little something about hearing a song that’s only in your head when things get quiet.”

Alistair cocked an eyebrow, and something inside Cullen loosened when he saw the twinkle return to Alistair’s eyes. “Cullen Rutherford, did you decide to become a Warden and not tell me?”

Cullen laughed, and Alistair grinned, and the world had righted itself once again. “The Wardens have always been your Order, not mine.”

He hesitated then to tell Alistair — he’d only just informed the Inquisitor last week — but the need to reassure Alistair overpowered any doubts.

“We have a reliable source of lyrium here for the Templars serving in the Inquisition,” he said to his mug. “But I no longer take it.”

Then he tossed back his own drink, draining it.

“You _what_?” If Cullen had hoped to distract Alistair from the song in his head, he’d succeeded. “Cullen, that could kill you!”

“It hasn’t yet.”

“‘Yet’ being the key word,” Alistair snapped. “What are you thinking? Why would you do this to yourself?”

“I’m thinking that you were right when you had your doubts back in training.” Cullen wasn’t angry, exactly, but Alistair wasn’t being as understanding as he’d expected, considering their conversation up to now. “I’m thinking that the Chantry has always used lyrium as a leash to keep the Templars in line. After everything that happened in Kirkwall, is it any wonder that I want to have nothing to do with that life?”

“But —”

Cullen cut him off with a snort and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as Alistair had. “Lyrium was going to kill me the instant I took my first philter. But if it kills me now, I’ll know it was my choice.”

Alistair said nothing for a while. Then he asked softly, “How long?”

Cullen shrugged. “Since I left Kirkwall. It’s been months.”

He heard Alistair suck in a sharp breath, and when Cullen lifted his head to see him, he saw Alistair’s forehead creased with worry.

“Are you in pain?”

Cullen let his eyes droop closed for a moment. That had been the Inquisitor’s first question, too.

“I can endure it.”

“Good for you,” Alistair said dismissively. “That’s not what I asked.”

Cullen smirked and opened his eyes. The Inquisitor had accepted his answer, possibly out of respect for his privacy and suffering. Or perhaps she read between the lines and understood what he’d been truly saying.

But Alistair wasn’t as diplomatic, nor had he ever been tolerant of Cullen’s, as he would call it, _bullshit_.

“I have my bad days. But they’ve grown fewer the longer I’ve gone without.”

Alistair nodded, lips pursed. “Uh-huh. Anything in particular that triggers them?”

He really wasn’t going to let this go, was he? That was awfully hypocritical, considering what he’d shared about his Calling.

Cullen averted Alistair’s gaze. “Stress,” he answered honestly, even though he knew the truth would work against him. “Lack of sleep. Forgetting to eat.”

“Oh, good. Your current job doesn’t contribute to any of that.”

Alistair was rarely serious, but his patronizing sarcasm had always grated on Cullen’s last nerve.

“You’re one to talk,” he snapped. “You just told me the Taint is poisoning you! Lyrium is a poison, too. It can destroy my body now, or it can steal my mind later.”

“So let it kill you later.” Alistair leaned forward in his seat, almost pleading. “You have _time_. Don’t waste it.”

Cullen stood, truly angry now. “You would have me stay leashed to an order that no longer exists and an organization that not only trained me to see others as less than myself, but now that everything has failed and we are trying to _fix_ the mess, has branded myself and the Inquisition as heretics?”

He paced away from his desk and Alistair, who of all people should have understood his struggle and _why_ it was necessary.

“I would serve out of loyalty, not blind faith! I refuse to be used as a weapon in a war no one will win!” The anger he let loose had been too long caged to be aimed at Alistair. No, this was a deep-seated rage that he’d never shared with anyone before now. “Had the Templars not been leashed by lyrium, how many would have questioned the Chantry?”

He couldn’t even look at Alistair — this was a man who had agreed to be poisoned so he could fight against a real enemy, who had selflessly risked life and limb, who had lost friends to save Thedas from utter destruction. A man who, unlike him, had seen what the Chantry was doing and refused to take vows _or_ lyrium. A man who even now, through his suffering, refused to give up on the Order that betrayed him so that he could save them — and Thedas — from themselves.

Cullen’s anger was only somewhat aimed at the Chantry and not at all at Alistair. No, Cullen raged almost exclusively at one person above all else.

Himself.

“I only ever wanted to serve the Maker!” he shouted. “Instead I was indoctrinated until I no longer recognized myself. But I wasn’t strong enough to break free until it was too late.” His voice broke, then, and he could no longer sustain his anger with yelling. Shame took over, and his volume decreased significantly. “I will not let lyrium steal any more of me than it already has.”

He stopped his pacing, but still wouldn’t look at Alistair.

“At least this way,” he spoke softly to his feet, “if I die, it will be as myself. By _my_ choice.”

Silence fell between them once again, and Cullen could _hear_ the pounding in his head, growing suddenly aware of just how cold his hands felt. He brought one, trembling of course, to his face.

“I understand.” Alistair finally spoke, voice soft even in the quiet of the office. “I don’t want you to not be yourself, Cullen.”

Something about the way Alistair said his name made Cullen turn to look at him for the first time since he’d stood up in anger.

Alistair met Cullen’s gaze steadily. “I just don’t want you to die.”

Cullen blinked at that, surprised by the honesty and simplicity of the statement. But his eyes never left Alistair’s, which shone too bright, and Cullen noticed their color for the first time. A rather lovely shade of golden brown, like the warm crust of a perfectly baked loaf of bread. A familiar feeling of comfort washed over him at the thought.

He blinked again, and the moment was gone.

“It’s not how you die that’s important. It’s how you live.” Alistair whispered the poetic words.

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “I know that’s not from the Chant.”

“Because you have the whole thing memorized?” Alistair challenged, his lips quirked upward.

Cullen smirked in response. “Because you wouldn’t quote the Chant if your life depended on it.”

“Aw, you _do_ know me!” Alistair threw his arms out in a gesture of both agreement and excitement. “See? This is why we’re friends!”

They grinned at each other, and the sheer silliness — Cullen couldn’t, nor did he want to, think of a more refined word for it — of the exchange lightened his heart in spite of heaviness of their respective death sentences. Only Alistair had ever been able to do such a thing, and the fact that he still could made Cullen grateful he was back in his life, even if only for a little while.

“So.” Cullen made his way back around his desk and collapsed into his chair. “If it’s not from the Chant, what is it from?”

“Duncan,” Alistair said, voice soft, even reverent. “I was angry when he told me, but he placed a hand on my shoulder and told me that. I’ve never forgotten it.”

The sentiment was lovely, but Cullen knew he was missing a piece of the puzzle. He didn’t know the person Alistair spoke of with such immense respect. Alistair had no living relatives. Was this Duncan a friend? A lover? Uncertain why his thoughts immediately took that path, but feeling an urge to know whether they were true, he asked as gently as possible, “Who is Duncan?”

Alistair’s eyes, that beautiful light brown but still too shiny, flicked to him, widening slightly. “Oh. Right. I suppose you wouldn’t —” He cleared his throat, then, once more composed, said, “Duncan was the Warden who conscripted me. He was the closest thing to a father I ever had. I only knew him six months, but he and the rest of the Wardens cared about me in a way I’d never experienced before. They were the only true family I’d ever known.”

Alistair’s voice trembled at the end, and Cullen knew why. Although he wished he didn’t, he wasn’t going to upset Alistair more by making him relive his pain.

“Ostagar,” he whispered.

It wasn’t a question, but Alistair nodded as if it were.

“I’m sorry.” The story they’d heard at the Tower was skewed, warped by Loghain’s treachery. By the time the truth became widely known — if he’d been told earlier, it had all melded into the blur of memories from what had happened at Kinloch — he was in Kirkwall, attempting to put Ferelden behind him.

Alistair blinked several times in quick succession. “Thanks,” he said, so softly Cullen barely heard it.

“The news from Ferelden was mostly rumor by the time it reached Kirkwall.” Cullen both did and didn’t want to bring it up — would it comfort more than pain Alistair to discuss? “He was executed at the Landsmeet?”

“Yes.”

“Who —?”

“I did.” Alistair’s voice was hard as granite and twice as cold. “It was the least I could do for them. I wish I could have done more.”

Cullen smirked. “The story of our lives.”

Instantly appalled at the words that had somehow escaped his mouth, Cullen prepared to apologize.

But Alistair snorted and flashed that cynical, bitter grin. “Exactly.” He grabbed his glass, realized it was empty, deflated, and set it back on Cullen’s desk.

As Alistair leaned back in the chair to contemplate the ceiling, Cullen worried he would fall back into the song of the Calling.

But if Alistair had come here for Cullen’s company, then by the Maker he’d be damned if he’d let that happen.

“You did, though.”

“Hmm?” Alistair lifted his head, and Cullen was glad to see his response was too fast for him to have fallen back in. “Did what?”

“You did more for them,” Cullen said softly. “You survived. You lived, and well. Continuing their work. Rebuilding the Wardens.”

Alistair let his head fall back again and laughed. This one hurt Cullen more than any others before. It wasn’t bitter; it sounded defeated. “Only for them to destroy themselves less than a decade later. Fat lot of good I did.”

“There’s no telling how many people were saved from darkspawn due to the presence of Wardens in southern Thedas, and something tells me their families don’t care what happened after.”

Cullen was rather proud of his cleverness, using Alistair’s previous words about his own work in the Inquisition against him; Alistair, however, disagreed.

“Yes, they _do_ care,” he snapped. “The Wardens have only been welcome back in Ferelden for a couple of decades! They were banished for attempting a coup. How exactly do you think Ferelden and Orlais will react when they hear the Wardens are possibly helping the creature — the _darkspawn_ creature, which Wardens are supposed to fight — who blew a hole in the sky and wants to end the world?”

Cullen had no response to that. Alistair made good points. Which was why —

“That’s why I’m doing this,” Alistair explained. “I need to keep Clarel and her ilk from ruining the legacy of the Wardens. Duncan’s legacy.” His voice softened. “Her legacy.” He lifted his gaze to meet Cullen’s, eyes and tone hard. “I won’t let them. I might not have much time left, but I won’t let them cast doubt and shame over the things we’ve done in the past decade. I won’t.”

Cullen nodded. He could understand that desire, to protect what so many of his comrades had died for. The Templars had caused so much pain and suffering that he no longer felt such a desire, but he had once, and he could understand it.

Some part of Alistair’s impassioned defense stuck with him, though, and an uneasy feeling coalesced in his gut.

“I thought you said the Calling was fake.”

“It is.” Alistair frowned briefly before cocking an eyebrow. “Too much terrible Orlesian liquor, Rutherford?”

Cullen’s discomfort only intensified. If Alistair was attempting to distract with humor, that meant that there was something to distract from.

“So why did you say you don’t have much time left?”

As he spoke the words aloud, Cullen realized what Alistair hadn’t told him.

To be fair, it wasn’t his business — he and Alistair had only been friends, such as they were, for a few hours. But they’d shared so much this evening, and even if they hadn’t, Cullen didn’t want —

His breath left him in a huff before Alistair could respond. “You’re dying.”

“We’re all dying, Cullen.” Alistair’s smirk was as sharp and mirthless as one of Sera’s arrows. “It’s just a matter of degrees.”

That, more than anything, confirmed Cullen’s theory. Alistair hadn’t denied the truth of his statement.

“So then,” Cullen said, leaning forward, “to what _degree_ are you dying? How much time do you have left?”

 

* * *

 

Alistair’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and then, as was his wont, he laughed the question off.

“I meant I don’t have much time left to stop their plan, Commander I-Worry-Too-Much Rutherford.” Alistair rolled his eyes, a sharp smirk twisting his mouth. “Once we do, this fake Calling will be gone and I can go back to doing what I enjoy — killing darkspawn.”

But Cullen wasn’t going to let him get away with this. Not now, after everything all they’d shared. “And how long will that last?” Alistair’s eyes narrowed, and Cullen knew he was on the right track. “We don’t know what the Wardens’ plan is. How could we know how much time is left to stop it? So why don’t you have much time left to save the Wardens’ legacy?”

Before Alistair could, Cullen asked himself why this was so important to him.

“I just don’t want you to die, Alistair.” He spoke the answer as it came. “Not yet.”

Alistair looked as shocked as Cullen had earlier when Alistair had said the same to him.

Cullen understood Alistair’s insistence on saving the Wardens. He deserved to leave the Wardens with a great legacy, one of honor and devotion. Cullen knew what it was like to leave an Order in failure; he wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But could Alistair die before he saved his?

Alistair’s laugh was cynical once again. “Trust me, you really don’t want to ask that question.” Then he sighed and reached for the bottle of Orlesian liquor he hated and filled his glass to the brim. That was not a good sign. “But I know how stubborn you are, and I’d rather not be _nagged_ to death, so …” He took a drink, shook his head, and then looked Cullen in the eyes, as serious as Cullen had ever seen him. “You need to understand one thing — what I’m about to tell you is a Warden secret. It does not leave this room. Understood?”

Cullen nodded. Most of what they’d discussed tonight wouldn’t leave the room. But that didn’t keep his heart from pounding in dreaded anticipation.

Alistair sighed, drank half the glass, and winced. “The Taint poisons us. We have about thirty years after the Joining.”

Maker. Thirty years after the Joining … Alistair’s Joining had taken place before the Blight, a little over ten years ago. Maybe eleven.

“That math’s pretty bad already, right?” Alistair flashed that bitter smirk again. “But that’s not all. Because I’m _special_.”

“Why?”

“You mean aside from being Maric’s bastard?” Alistair cocked an eyebrow.

“What does Maric have to do with —”

Alistair sighed, burying his face in his hand. “That was a joke. Because I’m already special?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Exposure to darkspawn increases the negative effects of the Taint. So the time it takes to poison us is about thirty years, minus time for good behavior. Like fighting during a Blight. Especially against an archdemon.”

Cullen’s heart sank all the way down to the floor, hitting with a painful _slap_. “How long …?” he whispered.

“That’s the best part.” Alistair downed the rest of his glass in one big gulp. “No one knows. I’m the only veteran Warden of the Fifth Blight, lucky me. And the Fourth Blight was over four centuries ago. And because of all those secrets, Wardens don’t keep the best records, and the ones we do have are at Weisshaupt Fortress in the Anderfels. But they’re all hush-hush up there, so no one would even let me look at them.”

They were silent for several long moments, and then Alistair’s watery brown eyes met Cullen’s.

“How do I have? I have no fucking clue, Cullen. Could be tomorrow, could be twenty years from now. Andraste’s ass, this could be my real Calling for all I know.”

He grabbed the near-empty bottle from Cullen’s desk and didn’t bother with the glass anymore. He just drank directly from it.

Cullen didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he could say. No amount of apologies or platitudes could provide comfort to a man who would receive a death omen sometime in the next twenty years, likely sooner rather than later. Nothing could soften the blow that Alistair would never live to grow old.

Well, nothing except …

Cullen held out his hand for the bottle. Alistair rolled his eyes, took one last pull, and handed it over.

“Spoilsp —” he started to say, but stopped when Cullen took a similar pull.

Resting the nearly empty bottle on his leg, Cullen stared at nothing in particular. “I took lyrium every day for more than a decade. I’ve seen men not much older than me begin to lose their minds. It starts with little things at first. Misplaced items, or words to a song. But more fades over time until …” He shrugged and took another pull. “Eventually it’s acquaintances. Friends. Family. I’ve met a few that didn’t even know their own names.”

He rubbed his forehead in frustration and placed the bottle on his desk harder than he intended.

“Every time I forget a detail at the war table, I wonder if it’s starting. I can’t remember where I put a report — is it the withdrawal? Am I losing my mind? Or do I just have too many reports to keep track of them all?”

“To be fair,” said Alistair, “it’s probably that last one.”

Cullen sighed. “Possibly. But I don’t _know_ that.”

Alistair grabbed the bottle back and took another drink. “Wardens have fairly regular dreams about darkspawn. I wake up sweating in the middle of the night — is that the Calling, or just a warning that there are darkspawn nearby?”

He handed the bottle back to Cullen, who drank and said, “Some side effects of lyrium are obsession and paranoia. Am I obsessing over my Inquisition work because of previous lyrium use or am I just, as Varric calls me, a workaholic? Are all these worries legitimate, or am I just paranoid?”

Alistair took the bottle from him and chuckled. “Andraste’s ass. How have we survived this long?”

“Punishment?” Cullen suggested. He wasn’t joking.

Alistair snorted. “Typical.” He tossed his head back and took a large swig of the Orlesian liquor before offering the bottle back to Cullen. “Your bottle. You do the honors.”

Deciding he might as well, Cullen took the bottle from Alistair for the final time and finished it off.

Alistair shook his head in mock disappointment. “Fucking Orlais. Their weak-ass liquor barely did anything.”

Perhaps not for him, but Cullen was certainly feeling rather more than tipsy.

Slapping his knees, Alistair prepared to stand. “Well, I’ve imposed on you long enough. You need your beauty sleep, and I should probably head back …”

He didn’t finish, but he didn’t need to. Because Cullen would likely be doing the same thing — trying and failing to get any amount of decent sleep. Like he always did when alone in the quiet.

And since he hated the deafening silence as much as Alistair did, he spoke into it. “Did you know that lyrium is also a sleep aid? They upped my ration after Kinloch. It helped with the nightmares.”

“Yeah,” Alistair nearly growled, through gritted teeth. “I’m sure that’s the only reason why.”

Cullen snorted. “Of course not. A Templar with a higher lyrium ration is easier to manipulate and less likely to do anything to jeopardize their supply. I see it, now, for what it was, but at the time …”

“It’s not your fault,” Alistair blurted, and Cullen wondered how long he’d been holding that in. “They drugged you into a stupor and manipulated you. Instead of being kind and loving like they always say the Maker is, they took advantage of your trauma for their own purposes and didn’t give a damn about what was best for _you_.”

Surprising even himself, Cullen smiled gently at Alistair’s words. “You are kind to say so. And everything you said is certainly true. But I cannot place the blame solely at the Chantry’s feet.” He leaned forward to grab the empty bottle and placed it aside for later reuse. “In Kirkwall, there were moments I knew we were crossing lines, and I said nothing.” He blinked rapidly before turning back to Alistair. “But that was not my point.”

Alistair frowned. “Then what … ?”

“Without lyrium …” He couldn’t finish. Perhaps if Alistair hadn’t interrupted he would have finished before he had time to think.

There was a reason he never spoke of this with anyone. His nightmares and lack of sleep were weaknesses, and a leader never admitted weakness.

No. That was Meredith talking. Maker, why was it so difficult to unlearn what she’d taught him?

“That is, I …” With effort, he forced the words out. “Company is nice. I have no more horrible Orlesian alcohol, but …”

He shrugged, dropping his gaze. It wasn’t fair of him to keep Alistair from his sleep, especially given his time as a fugitive from the Wardens.

But Alistair grinned. “You know that’s an incentive, right? No shitty Orlesian booze? Sign me up!”

They both laughed, and Cullen realized his heart was lighter, his burden less, than when he and Alistair had entered his office earlier.

Alistair had always been able to do that.

Perhaps one day, Cullen would find the courage to tell him.

“So, what are your opinions about the Inquisitor’s companions?” Alistair asked. “I’ve had time to form my own, but I’d like to hear what the esteemed Commander Cullen Rutherford thinks.”

Cullen smiled at that. Alistair had a way of gently mocking without being disrespectful, which Cullen’s colleagues — as much as he respected and even cared for them personally — seemed to lack in their incessant teasing. The four women who led the Inquisition acted far more like four slightly differing versions of his sister Mia, whereas Alistair …

Cullen had never had friends, really. But he could see Alistair becoming one.

“Very well,” he said. “But only if you share your impressions, so we might compare.”

Alistair’s genuine, happy grin lit up the office like midday. “Try and stop me!”


End file.
